


Tell Me The Ending

by vanishing_time



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, M/M, The C-Word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: Yet another C-word drabble, because I have a shitton of headcanons and feelings about that ep. A little naturalist. A little sad.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [We_Band_of_Buggered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_Band_of_Buggered/gifts).



House used to imagine this moment. Sometimes, when he was alone and cold.

He hears the creaking of the plastic tubes and pipes, the beeping of the heart monitor.

It's hot, so hot in the room, the room made warm to prevent goosebumps and shivering and trembling. But the warmth has turned into hotness, that kind of hotness one can smell in a hospital room in a scorching summer afternoon, when the molecules of decay and sickness break down and mingle and dance together with the pollution of the air.

He feels droplets running down his temples.

Wet, ruffled hair sticking onto pale, grey skin.

Wilson is lying there on the couch, in a damp patch of his own sweat, and the molecules of his scent are penetrating House's nose, shooting straight into his brain. All of it is too familiar. The odor of sickness, clotted blood, sour and sweet smell of vomit.

Wilson is wheezing quietly, with eyes closed after yet another seizure. How much of them they've made it through, House has lost count. It's been a long, endless waltz of shivering and gore and fear and pain. House has lost track of time and reality, Wilson is lost on the track between life and death, and they are both exhausted.

House nods off, his fingers still on Wilson's wrist, constantly, unconsciously monitoring his pulse, like a computer stuck in an endless loop for as long as electricity exists. He's monitoring his heartbeat even as he's slipping towards the verge of sleep.

Then suddenly he's covered with heavy weight and fevered heat, cold skin, and foul smell. He wakes up, or at least he thinks he wakes up.

Wilson feels so large and heavy, much heavier and bigger than any woman House has ever been with. He's big and his shoulders are broad, and he feels heavy like the weight of impending death pulling the strings of his limp muscles. Wilson is kneeling over him, lying halfway on top of him, his fingers are twined into the neck of House’s t-shirt, his wheezing is rasping and damp against the skin of House's suddenly oversensitive neck, and House’s eyes open wide in dismay.

Seconds, or minutes, or hours pass like this, and neither of them moves, Wilson in hypnotized trance, House in sudden fear, and something else just as terrifying.

Then Wilson's lips brush against his neck, and that spurs him to action.

He grabs both of Wilson's wrists. He pushes them away, yet still not letting them go.

Wilson somehow manages to put his weight on his knees, and now lifts his head up to look at House.

Black, brown and red, and House jerks back like he's been hit. There's not a single flicker of sanity left in Wilson's eyes. Only feverish glistening, only the cataract of pain, and terrible emptiness underneath it.

House is horrified, and can't look away.

Centuries pass, and Wilson stares at him, stares through him without blinking.

"What--" House manages to rasp out, though he doesn’t recognize his own voice, "what are you doing?"

God, this is the dumbest question that’s ever left his mouth.

Wilson blinks, and he finally seems to actually see him.

A tentative breath on his face, and then Wilson's on top of him again, and House's sharp exhale is trapped between their touching lips.

A dry, dry kiss, tasting of blood and copper, warm and chapped.

The lips scrape. They caress.

They hurt.

House stills, ready to escape, his mind is screaming all kinds of nonsense to him. His mind is spinning around in a ferris wheel.

He can't think of anything. His mind betrays him.

His mind is full of despair.

But then there's soft opening of lips, and there's the taste of spit, of small, open fissures, bile, and sadness, and salty tears.

And there’s Wilson’s taste, sweet and tender. Dizzying. Addictive.

His eyes close.

He hears his own rapid panting whistling through his nose. Deafening. Barely audible.

And God, then there's Wilson's tongue, slick and warm against his, and House's stomach twitches with an inner turmoil, and a deep, longing moan escapes him and disappears into Wilson's mouth. He feels it in his esophagus. He feels it in his throat.

His hands tighten on Wilson's wrists, and he can't feel his pulse anymore. He can only feel his own pulse. Ripping through him, pumping life through him.

He thinks for a moment that this must be a dream. Or a nightmare. He wouldn’t be surprised of either.

He tries to push Wilson away, but somehow he only manages to put his arms around him. Slipping his fingers under the sweater. Touching wet, flaming flesh. Swallowing Wilson’s sigh.

His lips relax, and as he realizes that he almost enjoys this, he's disgusted with himself.

He used to imagine this moment. Sometimes, when he was lonely and freezing.

Sometimes, when he wasn't. When they were together, laughing and joking. He imagined it in details, how it would happen on this same couch. Perhaps they’d be drunk. Perhaps they’d be sober. Sometimes he would be the braver one. Perhaps nothing would ever matter, because they’d be both healthy, and have all the time in the world. He assumed it would happen eventually, and there was nothing he ever wanted more. Nothing.

But... not like this.

Wilson then peels his lips off from his, and the room suddenly turns cold.

Wilson's hands find House's shoulders, digging into his muscles.

"House."

Wilson whispers with eyes closed, hiding his face in his neck again. Desperately. Naturally. Like he was speaking in his sleep. Like he was hallucinating.

"I’ve wanted--"

Like he loved him.

"I’ve always wanted--"

The tears are salty, and Wilson is lying on top of him, his breathing evened, slow. Sleeping, or passed out.

But his fingers are still twined in House’s shirt, and when House tries to move, they clench.

So he stays where he is, and they’re merging together in a pile of need and loneliness.


End file.
